Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Oh, and what if Grammy and Gramps want to bring a brisket over on Sunday afternoon? This could be just a tad confusing, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose the challenge is to find the perfect combination where this premise might work,” Donny says, thumbing through pages.

  “Do me a favor. Don’t you dare mention this to anyone, especially your folks. Remember how upset your mother was when we went to Marriage Mountain? She has a very traditional view of marriage.”

  “So,” Donny says, “I suppose that would make any indiscretions by our fathers palatable, as if our mothers expected it?”

  Donny’s words sadden me. I feel like I’m protecting someone, but I’m not sure who and from what exactly.

  “Can we keep this chat current please?” I ask. “So, are you saying couples who choose this arrangement aren’t violating their marriages because they know who their spouse is sleeping with?”

  I just now think of Sophie and Rob and how I never told Donny what Sophie alluded to regarding her own marriage. I know him well enough to spot the areas in which he’d be acutely impressionistic.

  I shimmy off the recliner and stand in front of Donny, hoping to block his light. He flinches, shielding himself with his arms, while I grab a cushion and pound it into shape. Part of him must be stirred by this controversy between us—like a body rash that fascinates while it starts to spread, before leaving you crazy with a nagging itch. I sense the whole idea of what it would be like in an open marriage has sent an electrical charge directly to his groin. I should reach down and grab the damn thing, check it out myself—bare Donny’s pre-masturbatory fantasy.

  “Please, sit down, Al, this is kind of interesting, don’t you think?”

  “No, Donny—you know what I think?”

  “Uh-oh, here it comes,” he says. His head stares up to the den ceiling, his mouth goes slack.

  “If you’re looking for adventure, Donny, consider rereading the Hardy Boys.”

  “Right, ha, ha. And … perhaps it’s time you cancel that subscription to Family Circle.” Donny reaches down and grasps my ankle as I pass between the coffee table and couch.

  “Quit it. I’m tired.”

  Out of habit, I expect him to playfully tag after me as I head for the stairs. But the manifesto wins. Donny makes himself cozy among the fluffed-up cushions. All he’s missing is a harem. First, I am relieved and then faintly disappointed, thinking his fantasy may have percolated some deep, hidden desire. Desire for me—Alex—the woman he chose to be his partner, his one and only, till death do us part.

  I awaken Saturday morning instantly aware of an abundance of light stealing through the bedroom shades. Lifting one, I see snowflakes as large as ticker tape swirling around the ochre glow of the street lamps. There are no car tracks yet; it is still early, but I hear the harsh, scraping sounds as trucks reduce their speed on the highway exit down the road. Chilly, I jump back into bed, thinking how excited Becky and Lana will be. I will let them make a Valentine’s snowman—a whimsical white butler, in a red hat, to greet our Saturday night guests.

  A few hours later, I unravel myself from the covers when I hear Donny yell: “Holy shit, it’s a goddamn blizzard.”

  I think immediately of the six dozen canapés in the basement freezer, and am relieved to learn we’ve not lost our electrical power. I also imagine Rona and Hy, basting like chickens under the Florida sun, poking each other with glee while they listen to the New Jersey weather report.

  By noon, the Kahns from Westchester call. They’re sorry they won’t be joining us since their garage door is barricaded by a “monstrous” snowdrift. Next, Nina and Noel phone and offer to take the train, but they’d have to sleep over with their little girl, Sasha.

  “Hey, don’t worry, we’ll do it another time,” I assure Nina. I can tell by how she almost begs that Nina was looking forward to this as another adventure. I am secretly relieved they can’t make it. When I relay the news to Donny, I scan his face extra hard—the verdict: regret. It doesn’t bother me that I’ve stolen his Peter Pan fun.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Lana and Becky listen to Bernstein’s Peter and the Wolf, while cutting out paper hearts from construction paper. Becky keeps one eye on Lana while she draws a large heart, occasionally sliding off her chair to help her sister maneuver the tiny scissors with the rounded blades. Lana wears her Stan Laurel pout, which means momentarily confetti may cover my freshly swept kitchen floor. Their father has been practicing the perfect log fire since noon, depleting our winter supply of firewood. When there’s a loud pop from the fireplace, the girls stop what they’re doing to check on Donny’s safety.

  “Daddy, better be careful,” Becky says, peering up from her artwork, her eager eyes waiting for disaster. Donny pokes at a burning white log, causing a spray of orange sparks. Becky runs upstairs to the safe haven of her bedroom. Why Donny’s picked this day of all days to practice his Boy Scout skills is beyond me, until I realize this keeps him from doing other things—like shoveling our buried walk.

  Our neighbor Jake, dressed like an Eskimo, bangs at our storm door. His two children are double-parked on the barren street, back to back on a long, wooden sled.

  “Ellen wants to know if you guys need anything for tonight, wine, cheese, you know.” He winks, and I wonder if this is how he does his pot deals in inclement weather—door to door like the Avon Lady.

  “Thanks, but we’ve got plenty of everything. Just bring yourselves.” This time I remember the proper thing to say. When we were in Miami, Rob had given us, gratis, an ounce of the good stuff that he’d smuggled in from God knows where. And I knew Jake would be passing around his own special hooch, hoping to attract new customers to his thriving enterprise.

  He wipes a drip from his nose with his woolen mitten. “Baby, you sure now?”

  “I’m sure. See you later and tell Ellen thanks for the offer.”

  “I will. And tell that lazy shit husband of yours to shovel your goddamned driveway. I almost broke my neck.”

  “It’s on his list, Jake, I promise.”

  Hearing the phone ring, I rush back to the kitchen. Lana’s already standing on the kitchen chair, the yellow receiver pressed to her tiny ear.

  “No, this isn’t Lana Turner, you’re silly. I’m Lana Pearl!”

  “Who is it, honeybun?” I ask.

  “He says he’s Charlie the Tuna, Mommy.” Lana giggles and hands me the phone. Oh, please, don’t be canceling. I hide crossed fingers behind my back. I walk the phone cord to the front door. Outside, the wind blows powdery dust around Jake as he struggles with a long wooden sled, trying to pull his children up the sloping road.

  I listen for a few seconds before speaking. It’s him; I recognize his breathing.

  “I hope you still plan on coming, Mr. Bell.”

  “Alex, is that a question to ask someone you’ve met just once?” He waits for my response.

  “Oh, ha, I get it.” I feel myself blush.

  Charlie clears his throat. “No, really, we wouldn’t miss this for the world. But I must say you really know when to pick a party. It will be a memorable evening, I’m sure,” he says. I focus on yes, he will be here.

  “Well, thanks to this lovely weather, we’re going to be a small group.”

  “I like that. It’s more intimate, don’t you think?” His voice sends a wave of tropical heat up my neck to my ears.

  “That’s true, but I was thinking about the amount of food I’ve prepared.”

  “Pretty, and she cooks! Wow, that Donny Pearl is one hell of a lucky guy.”

  Yes, and you Charlie Bell are so smooth. But weird as it is … I like it, simply, because the attention feels so good. Smooth is okay; what’s wrong with a little smooth?

  “We’re both lucky,” I say, half believing my words. Donny, now outside, presses his red, puffy face into the storm door. I jump, holding the receiver against my cheek. Though I haven’t done a thing wrong, I feel guilty. Snow shovel in hand, Donny’s mouth
ing to me: “Who’s on the phone?” I stare blankly at my husband as if I’ve never ever seen him before. And then I remember. He’s Donny. It is remarkable how Lana, when she knits her brows together, and turns down her tiny mouth, looks exactly like him.

  Rushing, I kiss Becky and Lana good night. They promise to stay upstairs if I allow them to sleep together in what they’ve always called Mommy’s bed. Something about the request feels déjà vu. And then I recall the Scotch and cigarettes that lingered on my father’s breath, as he carried me back to my room after one of my parents’ marathon poker games. I’d shut my eyes, tightly, but I was really wide-awake, praying he’d remember to kiss me, which he always did.

  Before the guests arrive, I’m like a Waring blender operating at grind speed. More than a few times, my head lunges deep inside the oven. I sting my fingertips testing the doneness of things. Perspiration, tinged with Revlon Nearly Nude, drips down my face.

  “Donny, where are you?” He rushes down the stairs, his hair damp and glistening. He looks fantastic. “You didn’t?” I ask, touching his hot and oily sun-lamped cheeks.

  “Yup, but only for a minute. I looked ghastly green.”

  “Here, please fill this bucket with ice. By the way, did I mention I’m never, ever, doing this again?”

  The doorbell chimes. Donny yells, “It’s open, come in.”

  Jake and Ellen stamp the snow on the doormat and slip out of their heavy snow boots. They have surprised us with another couple. “Hi, guys, meet Beth and Len. They moved next door to us just yesterday,” Jake says. Everyone mumbles niceties, but I don’t catch the last name. Why is it I never catch the last name?

  “Jake,” Ellen scolds, “you were supposed to tell Alex this afternoon. Did you forget, honey?” Beth cowers, looking embarrassed.

  I’m aware of how hard I’m trying to smile. “It’s totally fine! Welcome to the neighborhood, so nice to meet you … please, follow me to our den. I promise it’s cozy and warm.”

  I pass the two couples off to Donny and fly upstairs to pee. No surprise that Becky and Lana are out of my bed, rifling through Donny’s night table drawers. Lana is about to shove a chunk of Ex-Lax in her mouth. I didn’t know they still made this stuff nor that Donny ever bought it.

  “Drop it! That is definitely not candy! It is yucky medicine that will make you poop all night long—probably in your PJs. Under the covers now with lights out or back to your own rooms! Pick one.”

  “Here!” Lana whines, handing over the Ex-Lax.

  The stuff doesn’t smell half bad. Maybe if things don’t go well, I’ll melt a package of it over my cheesecake. I can imagine the frenzy, everyone clutching their keys, begging for their hats and coats to rush home.

  From the landing upstairs, I hear more people arriving. I straighten my shoulders and grab on to the banister. Downstairs, Donny is helping Paula remove her coat. I avoid looking at Charlie, but I can feel him watching me as I descend the stairs.

  “I’m glad you were able to … get out,” I say, stepping down, allowing Charlie to capture my hand in his soft leather glove.

  He hugs me quickly and close, and I’m cooled by the frostiness of his breath.

  “Try to relax,” he whispers into my neck, and then to the three of us, he says, “We’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

  I don’t know what to do first. I break from him and move toward Paula. Her pale cheek feels icy against my lips. Her hair is surprisingly darker, a sharp contrast to her blanched complexion. As she looks around the foyer, Paula’s eyes flutter, reminding me of one of Lana’s dolls. There’s a burst of laughter from the den, and I sense Paula’s genuine discomfort. I think she would like to stand here all night and not have to budge.

  “Is that for me?” I reach for the white box gripped in her fingers.

  “Ah yes, I brought you a pie,” she says, “from Richter’s Bakery in town. It’s apple, is that okay?”

  “Apple’s perfect, thank you.” I gesture for Donny to escort the Bells, but it takes him several seconds to read me. He is sporting his spacey look, staring at Paula’s full bow lips. My guess, he’s already downed some liquor and had himself a toke or two. “Donny will introduce you guys—Don?”

  “Yes, right this way.” Donny’s arm rests limply around Paula’s shoulder as Charlie follows them down the hall.

  I grab a batch of shrimp rolls from the oven and transfer them to a tray. Spying from the safety of my kitchen, sucking burned fingers, I glance toward the den. What’s surprising is a measure of shyness evident in Charlie—his strained smile, a vulnerability I’d not yet witnessed. Yet, he manages to tackle this bashfulness without pause, shaking hands like a politician campaigning through a sleepy upstate town. Our eyes meet, and he motions for me to come over, to leave whatever it is I’m doing. I hold up a finger, indicating one minute. I turn to the hot oven, hiding the smile spreading across my face, my heart racing. It is this, his constant attention that I find exciting. It feels as though we are sharing the same secret, but what that is remains a mystery.

  I return with more food, relieved when Jake and Len reach out to him, and soon all three are near the fireplace, sampling one of Jake’s finest blends. Jake, a master salesman, has the forceful stance of a barker at a carnival.

  Donny makes the rounds with Paula and introduces her to a few of our female neighbors. Her eyes appear apologetic as she struggles to answer the simplest of inquiries: where she lives, her kids’ names and ages. At her first opportunity, Paula joins me in the kitchen, where the temperature must have spiked a hundred degrees higher.

  “You made all of this yourself?” she asks.

  “It’s no big deal,” I say, my head lodged in a cabinet. “I’m looking for another tray. I never seem to know what to use for what. Our wedding gifts were much too formal … lots of sterling silver, not practical.”

  “We received mostly Corning Ware,” Paula says, her lips curled down.

  “My mother warned: ‘Alex, do not return anything. You’ll need that grape cutter, and that well-and-tree platter.’”

  “What’s a well-and-tree platter?” Paula laughs, revealing a sweet smile and perfect teeth. She’d appear extremely young if not for the white streak of hair, her distinct signature. I knew a boy in high school who had the same streak. The mean kids labeled him a mutant. I wondered if Paula was ever teased, and whether that may have contributed to her shyness.

  “It’s supposed to hold the juices from meat and poultry in a well that’s shaped like a tree. I have an extra if you’d like one for your next holiday dinner.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t cook.”

  “Well, don’t think I do this all the time, not with my girls and their finicky, macaroni and cheese appetites.” This is the most we’ve ever spoken, and I wonder if Paula’s clinging is to avoid the group of glassy-eyed strangers in the den now singing along with Queen. “Oh, look what a mess I’ve made.” The sleeve of my satin blouse is saturated with the dipping sauce for the Rumaki.

  “Here, let me help.” Paula grabs a bottle of seltzer from the counter and dabs at my sleeve with a dish towel.

  “Thanks, I think I got it all out.” At once Paula seems more self-assured, and maybe as a frazzled hostess, I’ve become less threatening. There is something in the way she comports herself that makes me want to shield her—from what, I haven’t a clue.

  Donny has been standing near us and rinsing out glasses at the sink. He tries to disarm Paula with a joke. I half listen to this joke, which I’ve heard maybe thirty times. Paula’s laugh is not convincing. “That’s okay,” I whisper in her ear, “I didn’t get it either. Donny, I think Paula needs something to drink.”

  “I love your kitchen, the way it steps down into the den,” Paula says, taking a glass of wine from Donny’s hands. Her face blushes, nearly matching the color of the liquid swirling in her glass.

  “Come,” Donny says, “I’ll show you the rest of the house. I’m the official tour guide.” Donny loves showing p
eople our home but also uses the tour as an excuse to sneak away whenever he’s bored. Paula glances back in my direction as if she needs my approval. I shrug. I’m too busy to think; all I want is a place to rest my aching feet. Donny takes Paula by the elbow and leads her from the smoke-filled downstairs. He looks determined, gallant, and only slightly drunk. All he is missing is an ebony horse and a sweeping Zorro cape.

  “Donny, remember that the girls are asleep in our bed.”

  I carry in a tray of canapés to cheers and whistles. I fake a curtsy. Ellen makes room for me beside her on the couch. She offers me a joint that’s near its end but quite potent. The smoke makes my eyes water. I look around the room to find Charlie observing me as one might a constellation. He’s got that wacky look, having smoked quite a bit. Jake’s been doling out joints like a proud papa celebrating the birth of his firstborn son. His new neighbor, whose name I’ve already forgotten, doesn’t know what the hell hit him. Like a magic trick, Charlie digs out a Meerschaum pipe and lights it.

  “Something new?” I ask, shouting over the music. He shakes his head no, sucking at the pipe stem, working the tobacco with his long fingers. I think I like this version of him holding a pipe—wise and scholarly, reminding me of my English professor, Harry Bloom, who used to pack tobacco into his pipe but never once lit it. Maybe the pipe is a convenient prop Charlie uses to buy time, to veil his vulnerability, which makes him even more appealing. The pipe, clenched between his teeth, makes his dark eyes squint. His gaze is so intense I quickly turn away, as if yanking down a shade after being spotted naked.

  I don’t realize Donny’s missing from the room until he shows up about a half hour later. The tip of his nose and ears are bunny rabbit red.

  “Where’s Paula? Did she run away after all?”

  “Using the powder room,” he answers.

  “Are you all right, Donny? You look smashed.”

  “Yeah, fine. We went outside to look at the snowfall. It’s such a beautiful night.”

  “But it has to be freezing.” Not sure what I expect to find, I peer outside and see footprints, many footprints, big, little, hard to distinguish.